Spite Club (Mason Brothers 1)

He wasn’t looking at me, thank God. Nick was lying on his stomach, sprawled out, his face buried in the pillows. The blanket partly covered him, but I could see one smooth, gorgeous shoulder blade, one spectacular bicep—both covered in an intricate pattern of ink. A toned leg was hooked over the edge of the blanket, his tawny skin contrasting with the white comforter. I could see his dark tousled hair, the back of his neck. And I could see—he was wearing boxer briefs. Black ones. Visible against the white of the blanket was one perfect, unbelievable male ass.

I stared at it for a minute, helpless and ass-struck. It was impossible not to stare. It really was that kind of ass.

Had we—? No. We hadn’t had sex. My memory was clear. We might be in bed together, in our underwear, but nothing had happened. No kissing, no touching, no making out. For a self-professed dirty guy, Nick had followed the rules. In his own crazy way, he’d actually been a gentleman. A hot, drunk, dangerous, gorgeous-assed gentleman.

Where the hell were my clothes?

And then it hit me. Work. It was Friday, and I had to go to work.

I must have made a sound, because from deep in his pillows, Nick said, “Evie. Are you panicking?”

Scout wiggled again at the sound of his voice and made a little whine.

“Um,” I said, my voice hitching. “Possibly.”

“Don’t,” he growled. “You remember what we did last night?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You remember what we didn’t do?”

I nodded, then remembered he wasn’t looking at me. “Yes.”

“You can get up,” he said. “I won’t look.”

I slid my feet out over the edge of the bed and got up. Scout looked at me hopefully, but stayed next to Nick, since he was her food source. And, obviously, her religion. She looked at his unmoving form like the sun rose and set on it.

I walked around the bed, looking for my clothes. My stained shirt and bra were gone—I didn’t think we even brought them home. I found my jeans, my socks, the ankle boots I’d worn. True to his word, Nick kept his face hidden in the pillows and didn’t peek. I grabbed my clothes and ducked into the bathroom.

I steeled myself and looked in the mirror. I was a disaster: my hair on end, my makeup smeared, my eyes bleary. Worse, I was trapped in a man-bathroom with no supplies. I splashed water on my face, tried to finger-comb my hair. Now I just looked wet and awful. I looked around. The bathroom was spacious, with a big glassed-in shower and a large vanity counter. Nick had a very nice place, which meant he was prob

ably rich, just like Josh had said. Normally I’d think it impolite to invade someone’s privacy, but these were extreme circumstances. I pulled open one of the vanity drawers.

Condoms. It was full of condoms.

I slammed it shut, panicking. Jesus, how many condoms did one man need? I obviously wasn’t the first woman to wake up in his bed, though by the looks of it I was the first one he hadn’t had sex with.

That thought made me queasy for reasons I didn’t want to explore, so I pulled open the next drawer. Hair gel—Nick didn’t wear hair gel—and shaving cream. A stick of deodorant. A tiny black comb, which I scraped through my hair. I didn’t see any evidence of Gina here—no leftover makeup, no Tampax. I wondered if she’d stayed over often.

The third drawer was the jackpot: a tube of toothpaste and an unopened spare toothbrush. I ignored the fact that the toothbrush was probably kept for his one-night stands and tore it open, quickly brushing my teeth.

I was just spitting and rinsing when I heard my cell phone ring in the bedroom. I must have left it on the floor. I had no idea who was calling me this early, and then I heard Nick’s voice: “Evie’s phone. Hello?”

Oh, no. He didn’t.

“This is Nick,” he said, obviously answering the other person’s question. “Who’s this? Oh, hey. She’s in the bathroom. She just got up.”

I had a terrible, terrible feeling of dread down my spine.

“No,” Nick said. “I’m not the nice man from the bank.”

Oh, shit.

Mom.

I dropped the toothbrush and ran out of the bathroom, leaving my clothes on the floor. Nick was lying in bed, on his back now, the covers pushed off him, propped up on the pillows, my phone to his ear. Scout had pressed herself into his armpit. I ignored the jaw-dropping sight of his boxer-brief-clad body and drew a line across my throat. The universal sign for Cut it out.

Nick saw me and frowned. “Sorry, but the nice man from the bank is an asshole,” he said in his bar-band voice. “He cheated on her.”